


God.

by saucy5sauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:55:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucy5sauce/pseuds/saucy5sauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock used to be called God, back when he and John were roommates in boarding school and had somewhat of a romantic love affair. Years later, John thinks he’s moved on. And then God knocks on his front door and drags him back into the feelings that come with a first love and that maybe never really left.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>“What took you so long?” Sherlock huffed.<br/><i>“What made you like this?” John would have teased Sherlock in high school. “Impatient and untrusting.”</i><br/>“I trust you,” Sherlock would have said.<br/>“I know. I’m still trying to work that one out.”<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	God.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When God showed up at his doorstep, John wanted to scream. He wanted to punch God in the nose, but to make sure he avoided his mouth because when God smiled, it caused John to melt into a puddle. And when he smirked, John felt like Robin standing beside Batman, together against the world._

1.1

When God showed up at his doorstep, John wanted to scream. He wanted to punch God in the nose, but to make sure he avoided his mouth because when God smiled, it caused John to melt into a puddle. And when he smirked, John felt like Robin standing beside Batman, together against the world.

“What the bloody hell-- Wh-- Hmm,” John stuttered.

“What am I doing here?” God said swiftly. “Good question.” He delivered his lines confidently, but faltered at the last bit. “I, erm. I missed you.”

John was nodding sarcastically and staring behind God. When he registered the words, his eyes snapped back to God’s face.

“Oh,” God muttered. “Was that bad?”

John sighed. “Would you like to come in? Sherlock?”

* * *

_1.2_

_They started calling him God for two reasons._

_It was a rowdy seventh grade classroom of boys with loose fitting ties and dirty polo shirts that had once been white. The vocabulary word was “omniscient” and whoever defined it correctly got extra points._

_John only remembers details of that day; how the boys in the back laughed and when the teacher revealed that it meant “all knowing”, and someone made a snide comment about Sherlock being the most omniscient._

_John doesn’t remember all of the details, not like Sherlock does. He forgets that he was the one who made the snide comment, that the teacher heard and corrected him. He forgets the teacher was a rather attractive woman, and that the boys in the back of the classroom were drawing semi-graphic pictures of her. It would be a while before John realized why that never amused him. Sherlock remembers how this teacher was oblivious that everyone was keen on her and he remembers how keen she was about proper definitions._

_“Omniscient is usually used in reference to whom?” she had asked. “Not Mr. Holmes,” she had narrowed her eyes and looked at John, “but God.”_

_And so a chant rose up, a running joke between the kids in the class and all of the friends that they told: they should call Sherlock God._

_It annoyed seventh-grade Sherlock, already with untamed curls and a disgust for the ordinary humans he was surrounded with. He tried to explain why the all the theories about God --any theory that was just that, really, a theory-- were stupid. He said that “even you idiots should know better”._

_His insults were forgotten, his explanations ignored. Sherlock hated the nickname. That was the second reason why people kept calling him that._

_All through the rest of middle school and high school (where he took college courses on the side-- enough so that he ended up in uni for a single semester), until a reluctant and constantly-insulted secondary-school principal handed him a diploma, he was known as God._

_Most people forgot the nickname as the years passed._

_Sherlock became a consultive detective, lived in a crappy flat and talked to himself too much._

_John became a doctor. Went to war and came back. Dated aimlessly and told himself that he was ready to settle down. John, though he seemed ordinary, was not “most people”. And he never forgot God._

* * *

1.3

They sat down for tea. God poured.

“Always making yourself at home,” John muttered.

“Home,” Sherlock knotted his hands together. “That’s actually why I’m here.”

“So, it’s not for the cuppa? Interesting.”

“Nor the charming small talk,” Sherlock smiled at John, who looked confused. “I found a flat, cheap enough if we split the rent. I remember you being quite easy to live with.”

“I wasn’t the one sneaking chemicals in late at night, innit?” John muttered.

“Well then, that’s settled.” Sherlock stood. “I’ll text you the address.”

“It’s not settled,” John muttered through his teeth. “And I definitely did not give you my phone number.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “I can find it easily. Just like I found you.”

John couldn’t help it; he rose his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze. Looking back at him were the same bright and interested eyes he remembered from high school. Something in his stomach stirred.

“So you want to be flatmates again?” John had to ask.

Sherlock nodded before walking too fast (as he always did) into the other room.

John didn’t finish his question, couldn’t face being let down. But he was wondering it nevertheless: Did Sherlock want to be more?

* * *

_1.4_

_It hadn’t started off as electricity. Long before the fireworks of their teenage relationship, long before the -dare I say- explosions, there was high school, and two boys with the same schedule._

_It took Sherlock to the end of the first day to figure out that John was in all of his classes. (He also took note that John was never the one to call out “God!” when Sherlock was called during attendance. And that John seemed to color-coordinate all his binders.)_

_It took John maybe a month. (He didn’t keep tabs on the tall boy, after all. He was at school to learn, not to watch the curls on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and okay, maybe he had noticed him once or twice.)_

_So John realized that they had every class together. And he realized that if he got there before Sherlock, the curly-haired boy would sometimes smile at him when he walked in. That was how it started, really. John was helpless around Sherlock’s good looks and loved seeing him smile. He never smiled at anyone, and that was half of what made it so special._

_The other half was that when Sherlock smiled at John, it was different from how his rugby buddies smiled at him. It was more intimate, less friendly. Behind the smile was feeling._

* * *

1.5

Sherlock left before John could say any more. (He didn’t say much of anything, to be honest.)

He left with his long coat running behind him and John is not sure why he suddenly feels like he’s in the eye of the storm.

John didn’t cancel his dinner plans. He tried on three ties and ended up not wearing one. He got in a taxi and couldn’t stop looking behind him. He felt in his coat for his phone. 1 new message.

John felt his breath catch somewhere between his heart and his lungs.

see you soon! xx

It was his date, a nice girl named Julie or Sally or something of that sort.

John closed his eyes, leaned back in the seat and let out a sigh so loud that the taxi driver asked him if he was okay.

“Not nearly,” he said.

0 new messages. He checked his contacts, but there is no one under the name Sherlock. Of course there isn’t, John thought. Of bloody course. Has he forgotten the months after high school, how he searched the underground and how, after five years, he showed up at the reunion to find the one boy who never showed?

If he had had Sherlock’s number… well, there’s no use wondering about that now.

“569 Tuler’s Lane,” the taxi driver announced.

John straightened his coat. Tried to steady himself. Allowed one last look at his phone.

0 new messages.

Bloody hell. He should’ve canceled the date.

* * *

_1.6_

_John wasn’t sure how it happened, but all of a sudden he was racing God._

_Having every class together meant that they could have walked together. But John was too shy and Sherlock had never small-talked with someone on his way to class, not like everyone else did. So, they developed a sort of an unspoken competition about who could get to class first._

_It was this way that John first really remembers Sherlock-- winning and smirking, with one long finger tapping against his lips. (Which means it wasn’t John’s fault for staring at his lips, right? Not his fault when they were right there staring back at him.)_

_And then it was the end of the term, and John felt like he had to say something to Sherlock. (He was a loss at what to say, but he’d manage. (Right?) )_

_He sat next to Sherlock on the steps outside the school. The other boy was reading something, John couldn’t see what._

_“Erm,” John coughed. “Hello.”_

_Sherlock almost smiled back._

_“When someone says hello,” John said. “You are supposed to respond in kind.”_

_“Is that so?” Sherlock responded._

_John almost fell off of the step. Sherlock’s voice was velvet, his words pronounced so that they seemed to stick in John’s brain._

_“Erm. Yes.”_

_“Noted,” Sherlock said._

_“I can’t tell if you’re being serious,” John responded. “Are you? Being serious, I mean.”_

_“More often than not. And you, Watson, what are you?” It was a loaded question if John had ever heard one._

_“Call me John,” he said. “My mates call me John.”_

_Sherlock smirk turned at the corners, like paper starting to burn and fray._

_“Your mates are full of inaccuracies and assumptions,” he said. “ An utter lack of attention to the world of facts, your mates have. They call me God.”_

_John wondered, for the first time, if that was something that he should feel badly about. He thought about apologizing, but Sherlock was sitting tall in the wind, he was hair that defied gravity and his hands were tracing a symphony on the stone steps. He was untouchable._

_“Well, Mr. Holmes,” John said. “You expect me to believe that you have never an assumption?”_

_“No.” He said the word with force. “I have not. I speak the truth that I can deduce from the things that I observe.”_

_“Observe?”_

_“Yes.” He gazed out across the main courtyard and raised one slender finger._

_“Them,” Sherlock pronounced. “Do you see the bloke wearing blue and the blonde?”_

_“I prefer brunettes, me,” John said._

_Sherlock’s eyes darted to John’s face. “Interesting,” he said._

_“A joke,” John clarified._

_“I know what a joke is,” Sherlock said, like it bothered him that John thought he didn’t. (Like it bothered him what John thought of him at all.)_

_“So, the bloke in blue,” John said._

_“Yes. What can you deduce about him and his… friend?”_

_This felt like a game, like something else Sherlock was bound to win. But John was stubborn, too._

_“He is wearing his sweater inside out,” John said._

_“Yes. And?”_

_“And his name is Ryan-- he’s in my history courses.”_

_“No, no, no. Focus! What else?”_

_John rolled his eyes. “What else are you looking for? Trying to solve a mystery, are you, Sherlock?”_

_“It’s not even a good mystery,” Sherlock sighed, his excitement of a minute ago lost. “All of the information is in plain sights.”_

_“What information?” John said._

_“Do you really want to know?” Sherlock looked surprised. “Most people don’t--”_

_“I’m not most people,” John interrupted him._

_Sherlock tilted his head and stared at John. “You’re not, are you?”_

* * *

1.7

 **221b Baker Street** is the first text.

 **who the bloody hell is it** , John texted back. **its 2am**

 **Is it? Fascinating.** was the reply

 _Well,_ John thought, _Sherlock had somehow found his number. There’s one promise he had kept._

Don’t get used to it, another part of his brain was yelling. Don’t fall for his tricks.

John brought his cell to his face so he could read the messages again. He should go to sleep. He shouldn’t let Sherlock keep him up all night. Not like at the Academy, with matching bags under their eyes and while John fell asleep in class, Sherlock would takes notes because he knew that other boy used them for studying.

 **if we are going to be flatmates,** John texted, **u better sleep at night.**

**Dearest John. Have you forgotten everything about me?**

If only he had. That would make everything so much easier.

 **g’night, sherloc.** John texted quickly before throwing his cell across the room. Sleep. He was a doctor; he needed sleep.

In the morning, he would jump out of bed to check the last message from Sherlock, dated 2:33 a.m.

**I see you have forgotten how to spell my name, too. We shall have many things to catch up on. Coffee, tomorrow? Outside the flat. 7:21 am.**

John glanced at his watch and swore. He was going to be late.

* * *

_1.8_

_“So, what have you-- deduced?” John asked again. (He never thought Sherlock the type to be easily distracted. He’s worse than a 3-year-old, really.)_

_“Oh. Yes. Erm, you’re not just humoring, are you? Mycroft said that people would do that and that I mustn’t take them seriously.”_

_John made a mental note to ask about Mycroft later. The name sounded oddly familiar, but not from the Academy._

_“I’m curious,” John said. “Is that okay?”_

_Sherlock was trying not to smile. “Well,” he started, “Why would someone not notice that their sweater was being worn inside out? So he dressed in a hurry. He is only wearing one sock-- if he had gotten dressed in his dormer, he would have found two socks, even unmatched ones. So where did he get dressed? Did he spend the night with her?_

_“No, she’s two or three years younger; you can tell by the size of the backpack. Directly proportional to the years at RWA, I’m afraid.” He glanced at John’s backpack, which was overflowing with textbooks and paper. They were in 9th grade, at the end of their 3rd year._

_“So where did he spend the night?” John asked._

_“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock said._

_“No. It’s not.”_

_“With her.” Sherlock pointed across the courtyard, to one of the main dorming halls. “Third floor, second window on the East side.”_

_Surely enough, John saw a girl’s face, framed by curtains, watching as Ryan walked across the courtyard._

_“Why not the girl he’s with, then?”_

_“First and second years live on the other side of campus. With much stricter security.”_

_Sherlock clapped his hands together to show that he was finished._

_“Wow,” John said. “That was amazing.”_

_“Really? Usually people just tell me to stop showing off, to stick my nose out of others’ business, to let the police do their jobs…”_

_“Really. You can show off any day to me.” John blushed, realizing that what he said could be taken the wrong way. (What would people say?)_

* * *

__

1.9

John had forgotten what it was like to have Sherlock waiting for him. When his taxi rounded the corner of the street, he caught a glimpse of something he hadn’t seen in years.

Sherlock, his hair and his coat like a cape blown by the wind. His leg bouncing impatiently and he was probably not even aware of it.

“Ahh, there you are!” he cried as John struggled to get out of the cab. (Some days, John wondered if he had a limp. Some days, John wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t gone into to Barts and gone into the army. More days than not, John had wondered what had happened to Sherlock Holmes.)

“What took you so long?” Sherlock huffed.

(“What made you like this?” John would have teased Sherlock in high school. “Impatient and untrusting.”

“I trust you,” Sherlock would have said.

“I know. I’m still trying to work that one out,” John would have said.)

“Didn’t get your text until the morning.”

“Pft. Sleep?” Sherlock asked.

“Does that really confuse you?”

“We’re not here to talk about me. We are here to talk about you.” Sherlock hands John a cold cup of coffee, seemingly out of nowhere.

“And why’s that?”

“Small talk. Catching up. Isn’t that what people do after years?”

John sighed. Sherlock had never understood the simplest things-- like that people don’t show up at their ex-boyfriend’s house and propose moving in with them.

“Sherlock,” John said. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, of course.”

 


End file.
